Page 20 of Caging Liberty

I nod and pat his shoulder before walking past him. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

6

Liberty

Ihold my breath when I hear the cellar door open.

Mr. A walks in, and I let it out, my shoulders sagging with a relief I’m disappointed in myself for having.

I don’twantto want him here. I want to dread his presence just like I do every other man I’ve seen since I was abducted. But he’s given me something I’ve been missing since I got here, and it’s somehow breaking me down more than anything else these sick fucks have tried.

Because of Mr. A, I finally have a better sense of time.

He comes once a day, gently places a granola bar into the cell, then leaves without ever saying a word. He’s done this four times, always wearing different clothes, so I’m almost certain that when Mr. A comes, it’s a new day. It even feels like I’m beginning to get a sense for when he’s about to arrive, so I think he even shows up at the same time. But that could be in my head.

There are no windows in this cellar, and having no obvious patterns, I can’t get a sense of Julio’s schedule. He shows up to fuck with me and to dump the toilet—which is just a plastic bucket…gross, I know—but there’s no internal clock clueing me in to how often that is. My stomach cramps worsen as time passes, to the point I spend a good chunk of the day—or night?—lying on my side, curled into a ball, wishing the pain would ease, but that’s the only indication that I’ve been here for a substantial amount of time.

Until now. Now I can tell how much time passes, and it makes things worse while simultaneously bringing comfort. I have something to wait for, something to crave, something to look forward to. That fucking daily granola bar.

Sharp pain seizes my stomach, and I wrap my arms around myself and squeeze, waiting for it to pass. Normally, I fight through it when someone else is here—I don’t like to show my pain—but today, I don’t care. Julio already came. I’ve already used my energy putting on a show for him. I don’t have any left.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

I open my eyes as Mr. A walks up and crouches to place the bar in the cell. I stare at his tan face and can’t help but notice how handsome he is. Today especially. He’s wearing black slacks and a white button-down he has rolled up his forearms. The top two buttons are undone, and he’s missing a tie today. His chestnut brown hair is tousled like he’s been running his hands through it, and his hard jawline sprouts stubble I haven’t seen before.

I wonder what his days look like. What made him run his hand through his hair? Where has he been? What has he been doing?

This is an island meant for play, but he looks like he does nothing but work. He doesn’t have the same casual attire as the others, and he always looks serious. There’s no evil in his eyes, and he isn’t annoyingly carefree like Sawyer. I haven’t caught a single smirk to tell me he gets pleasure from seeing me in pain, unlike the others. He doesn’t try to take anything from me or convince me that everything’s going to be okay, and all of this combined makes me hate him just a little bit less than Sawyer and Julio.

Who is he? I spend just about every moment I’m not plotting my escape imagining his life, coming up with characters who may resemble him. Some of them are vile, cruel, ruthless. Sometimes I let myself imagine he’s kind, as if anyone on this island is capable of that. I don’t know his motive for coming down here, but it’s hard not to sometimes imagine that maybe he just gives a shit.

I’ve been determined not to show my weakness, not to give these people any of the begging I know they’re after, but I’m breaking. I can feel it. I’m stripped down to my bra and panties, and my knees feel rough against my arms. My skin is dirty and dry. My stomach gnaws like I’m being eaten from the inside. I’m exhausted all the time. And I’m so lonely. If I’m going to break, I don’t want the other two to be the ones who watch it happen. If any of these assholes is going to see me vulnerable … I guess I’d want it to be him.

I try to meet his eyes, waiting for the moment he looks at me. I want him to see what’s in my head, see how badly I’m hurting, how terrified I am, and how fucking miserable it is constantly hiding these things. I want him to talk to me again. To say hello. Say goodbye. Say anything.

I will him to look at me, but it doesn’t work. He stands up straight, turns around, then walks back toward the stairs.

My eyes water as I move my gaze to the granola bar. A piercing pain lights up my stomach, and I suck in a sharp breath, air whistling past my teeth. I close my eyes and swallow.

“Thank you,” I call out, moisture coating my lashes.

His footsteps stop echoing on the walls, and even though my eyes are closed, I can feel his stare. Or maybe I’m just hoping for it. Maybe he’s already left.

I open my eyes at that thought and lift my head to see him paused on the bottom step. His back is to me, and he doesn’t turn around. After a moment, he continues up the stairs. I bite down on my lip.

Don’t go.

Don’t go.

“Don’t go,” I blurt out, tucking my face into my knees and letting my tears slicken my skin.

I don’t look up, but I hear his footsteps coming toward me. When they stop, I lift my head, wipe my eyes, and force myself to calm. I won’t beg. I promised myself I wouldn’t do that.

“Are you okay, Ivy?”

My vision blurs, and I don’t answer. That question doesn’t deserve a response.

“Would you like to talk?” he asks, his voice light. Gentle.